


You Made Me Soup

by MrsSaxon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Hannibal in jail, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Oneshot, Pneumonia, Sorry I'm just really proud of that, Vignette, Will Cooks, Will cooks things for Hannibal, cameo!Barney, crockpots are not metaphors for hearts, h/c, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5526938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsSaxon/pseuds/MrsSaxon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Special Secret Santa gift for meowdejavu (on tumblr)</p><p>Hannibal comes down with pneumonia while incarcerated. Will decides to make him some soup. Absolutely no one thinks it's strange that Will comes to give his ex soup when he finds out he's sick. No one at all finds this suspicious. At. All.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Made Me Soup

Will couldn’t say for certain why he was doing this. In all honesty, it was something he was avoiding asking himself and something he’d been grateful Molly hadn’t asked him as she watched him obsess over his ingredients and hover over the stove earlier that morning.

He could just walk the crockpot in, give it to his orderlies, and leave without saying a word, but somehow that was even more humiliating. Like confessing he couldn’t face him. No, he wouldn’t leave an offering like a tribute to a lonely god; Hannibal was not his religion. He would march right down to his cell and watch him eat it if it came to that. There was no turning back now.

Will cut the engine and stepped out of his truck into the biting Baltimore air. It was March now, but no one seemed to have told that to the wind which still blew like January. He opened the door to the backseat of the cab and gingerly picked up the sealed crockpot, steam still fogging up its lid. Will cradled the hot soup in his arms like an egg as he approached the ominous building. He sneered up at its overcompensating façade; it no longer had the power to intimidate him. Loom as it might, Will Graham would walk unbowed into its belly.

The receptionist raised a worried eyebrow over him and his crockpot and reached for her phone. Will would just bet the extension she dialed was Alana.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist nonetheless did him the courtesy of pretending he was new here.

“Will Graham to see Dr. Lecter, please.” He set the crockpot gently on the counter, ignoring her response of stunned silence.

“D-Do you have an appointment?” she asked with some hesitation, knowing perfectly well he didn’t and that he knew that.

“No,” Will responded, waiting for her to get to the end of her script.

The woman swallowed, “I’m sorry, Mr. Graham, I can’t issue you a pass to see him without…”

“Will!” Alana’s clear voice rang out from the stairs, interrupting the farcical conversation. Will looked up with a brief smile of recognition to see Alana. She was dressed in fierce crimson, her dark hair and cane bold strokes against the flaming color. He tried not to focus on watching her put pressure on the silver tipped walking stick as she came down the last stairs and strode into the lobby like a hostess at a dinner party.

“Alana,” Will nodded when she approached.

“Good to see you, Will. What an unexpected… surprise,” Alana sighed, her smile equally quick and flinty, “How are Walter and Moll-”

“I’m here to see Hannibal,” Will interrupted, wanting to eliminate as much of the small talk as possible.

Alana’s air of playing good hostess faltered. Her lips pursed as she glanced from Will to the receptionist, then stepped a little away, pulling Will aside. “Hannibal has… been taken ill, Will,” she said carefully in the clinically neutral tone he remembered.

“I know.”

Alana turned to look at him slowly, a slight frown appearing in her eyebrows, “How did you know?”

Will glanced around the well-apportioned room, admiring its polished columns and self-aggrandizing austerity. He turned back to Alana with one disbelieving eyebrow and said smartly, “Your receptionist told me.”

Alana instantly scowled and tamped on her cane. It amused him faintly that she had grown enough accustomed to it to be expressive with it.

“He has a virulent strain of pneumonia. We don’t know how he got it, depression leading to a weakened immune system most likely, but it still doesn’t make any sense. He was the picture of health three days ago, now we have him chained to his bed, not that he needs it,” she walked back towards the reception desk slowly, leading Will along, “We’re pumping him full of antibiotics, but for now he’s weak as a kitten.”

She came to a rest in front of Will’s crockpot and hung her cane on the counter next to it to fold her arms. “So why on earth are you, of all people, turning up out of the blue to see him?”

Will followed her slowly, considering his steps and words carefully. “Curiosity,” he replied after a moment’s pause.

“Curiosity?” Alana asked.

“Mmm, see how he’s getting on, inspect the conditions, that sort of thing…” Will cocked his head, making no attempt to disguise how he was mocking her.

Alana narrowed her eyes, “I’ve had two years dealing with Hannibal playing with me, Will, you’re not going to even scratch the surface.”

Will looked surprised, widening his eyes dramatically, “Then I’m here to sharpen my tongue on an old whetting stone. May I see him yet?”

“Refusing to answer my questions is not going to make me more inclined to let you see him, Will. Give me one good reason and I might consider it,” she tapped her foot impatiently, not in a mood to humor an extremely rude and unpleasant Will today.

Will was getting tired of pointing out the obvious and gestured with an open palm to his crockpot by way of explanation.

Alana curved one elegant eyebrow and peered over the top of the steamy glass. Unable to distinguish the contents, she lifted the lid. The rich smell of spicy tomatoes with shellfish and trout greeted her nose, briefly warming the small area around the reception desk.

“It’s soup,” she stated blankly, replacing the lid. She turned to Will, “You made him… soup.”

“Yep,” Will said, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Didn’t trust us to meet his dietary requirements?” Alana pulled a little bit of a smile and Will softened slightly, seeing something of the old Alana in there.

He inhaled deeply, “Think of it as owing him one. He made me soup when I was sick, now I’m just returning the favor.”

Alana glanced between Will and the crockpot. “I won’t insult you by asking to take a sample and sending it off for analysis. I’m going to trust you didn’t use one of his recipes to make this. Given the state he’s in, I doubt it would make a difference if you had,” she took up her cane again, walking around the desk to fetch Will a security pass, “Having said that, I’m giving you this chance to see him only because I know it will boost his immune system so he can be over this quicker and get put back in his regular cell. I’m not doing it because you asked me.”

She withheld the pass like a dog-trainer holding a treat. The irony had Will mentally pulling a grimace, but he resisted showing it. Instead, he nodded obediently, “Understood. And thank you.” No use rocking the boat at this stage.

Alana handed over the pass, then walked out from the reception desk to the elevators, “This way,” she called.

“Normally, he’s in the basement, but for easier treatment, we’ve had to set up new arrangements,” Alana explained, hitting a floor much closer to her office.

Will raised an eyebrow, “What are his usual arrangements?”

Alana sighed, “Hannibal could not be kept in an ordinary cell, too dangerous.”

“For you?” Will frowned.

“For the other inmates. I don’t need to tell you what kind of a charmer he can be and the sorts of things he charms people into doing,” Alana’s hand reflexively clenched on her cane, “We built a special cell for him with minimal contact with people. It’s a concrete bunker with ceiling to floor glass in front. No doors, no windows, no one in sight, except to feed and bathe him. This has been something of a pleasant change, I think.”

Will said nothing, but he glanced down at his soup critically.

“And now?” Will muttered.

“He’s in a room all to himself, of course, but instead of walls barring him in, he’s chained to his bed. Safety and all. There’s a lot more people coming and going to look after him through this. It’s been… difficult, taking all the necessary precautions while he’s sick. It’s hard to say if he’d use this as an opportunity to get free.”

By this she meant, she absolutely expected Hannibal to try. Will couldn’t say he blamed her for thinking that.

The elevator doors opened at last. “This way,” Alana gestured, leading him out down a hall to a set of double doors that reminded Will of proper hospital doors. This really was a sick room then.

The cell was almost open air, as Alana had promised. Hannibal’s bed was tolerably close to a window on account of his shackles, IV, and heart rate monitor, a few privacy partitions blocking him off from the rest of the room, but very little else in the way of protection. Will was somewhat stunned until he walked behind the closest partition and got his first look of Hannibal in nearly two years.

Hannibal was not cutting a very dashing figure, lying sunken and grey in his bed. His face, ever wan, was becoming a death’s head with the hollows of his cheeks and eyes concave and shadowed. His eyes were closed, resting, hands limp in the heavy silver chains.

Will stared. In all his dreams of Hannibal over the past two years, in all his many forms and guises, he had never once looked like this. Will had broken him, tortured him, beaten him many a time. He’d seen Hannibal’s guts strewn across the same floor where he murdered Abigail and watched the life fade from his eyes. But still he had never looked like this, never… weak.

“There’s a chair, if you want to wait until he wakes up,” Alana intruded, proffering the steel seat, screwed down, just in case.

Will glanced back, startled, but nodded quickly, “Yes, thank you.”

Alana bowed her head graciously. “He is of course monitored at all times, the cameras are here,” she pointed with her cane to corners around the room, “here, and here. The attending nurses also wear a body cam. We’ve learned from that little stunt with Gideon.” She smiled thinly.

Will nodded, smirking slightly, wondering how effective that was, but he made sure Alana couldn’t see.

Alana glanced down at the dark shadow in the bed and sniffed. “Well, I have paperwork to get back to. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t ousted Chilton, if only to have someone to push all the tedium onto,” Alana smirked and passed Will one last look before heading for the door, “There’s a button under that chair, if something should happen.”

Will turned back to her, “Thank you, Alana.”

She nodded once, curt, before sliding between the doors with a gust of air.

Will sighed and reluctantly sat down in the bolted chair. He tapped his fingers against the crockpot as he looked around the room, searching for a place to set it, perhaps plug it in and keep it heating until Hannibal woke up.

A soft coughing noise redirected Will’s attention to the patient. Hannibal instinctively tried to push himself up to cough more effectively before the handcuffs halted him, jingling against the bars of the bed. His purple eyelids cracked reluctantly, revealing a glazed sheen, looking out into the world briefly before closing again, rejecting the view.

He coughed again, turning his head toward him. Will swallowed, waiting for his eyes to open again. When they did, Hannibal’s eyes opened directly on him. Will watched him cock his head, then slowly open his eyes more fully with effort, lining up his gaze with his shoes, then slowly traveling up his body to his face. His lips parted, though that could have been for another cough.

Will glanced away, letting him recover himself. His eyes happened to catch the heartrate monitor, the beats beeping more frequently than they did before, although Will pretended not to notice. He turned back politely when the coughing ended.

Hannibal leaned back against the pile of pillows, regarding him for a moment. “Will,” he rasped.

Will blinked, unsure he’d heard correctly. Pneumonia had destroyed Hannibal’s confident, alluring voice. He was reduced to a weak croak, more focused breath than sound, throat and tongue cracking and creaking around the letters. If not for the familiar emphasis on the last l, the way Hannibal’s Lithuanian tongue always changed the pronunciation just slightly, Will would not have recognized the sound as Hannibal at all.

“Dr. Lecter,” he replied quietly.

The words seemed to reach Hannibal slowly. He again tried to push himself more fully upright, not inclined to face Will from an unequal position, but the handcuffs, and his illness, prevented him. Fatigue notwithstanding, he attempted to control the conversation, “Death is fond of sending harbingers before him. Though, I can’t recall any quite as appropriate as you.”

“It’s pneumonia, not the plague, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal disregarded him with a weary wave of the hand. “Why else would you be here, if not the scent of death drawing you in?” Hannibal managed to finish his question before breaking off to cough.

Will rolled his eyes and, in response, lifted the lid of the crockpot, wafting the smells towards Hannibal.

He perked up instantly, turning towards the smell. Hannibal edged as close as he could to the rail and tried to lean over, carefully taking a deep sniff. His eyes drooped shut as he concentrated, “Fish, and shellfish, tomatoes, carrots, onions… not bouillabaisse…”

“It’s Fisherman’s Soup,” Will explained, “My dad made it once when I was sick. It was good to taste something that wasn’t cough syrup. I thought you might want to taste something that wasn’t hospital food.”

Hannibal opened his eyes and a smile tugged at his lips, “You made me soup.”

Will replaced the lid to maintain the heat in the pot and disguised a small smile of his own, “Not chicken though.”

Hannibal raised a wry eyebrow. Weakened as he was, he was not one stitch less smug.

The door at the end of the room opened and both men turned their heads to see a nurse and cart entering, loaded with several pillows and a bowl and spoon, Will was glad to see.

Their conversation was momentarily interrupted as Hannibal was propped up more thoroughly, his pillows fluffed, his IV exchanged, and a few quick notes made on his chart. No one spoke during the proceedings.

The nurse slid a tray onto the bars of Hannibal’s sick bed and placed the bowl and spoon on it. Will glanced at Hannibal’s handcuffs and frowned. There was no possible way he could feed himself like that.

The nurse turned and addressed Will, “Dr. Bloom says, due to the unusual circumstances of your visit, we have a choice. I can either uncuff him so he can eat and I stay in the room to monitor your activities, or he stays cuffed and you can feed him. Both are extremely dangerous options and Dr. Bloom reminded me to advise you that you can leave at any time and she will personally make sure he receives your… soup.” The nurse took a curious glance at the crockpot, before returning to Will with a resolute, unforgiving expression.

Will took one look at Hannibal. It wasn’t necessary to know which he wanted, but Will couldn’t resist the thrill of recognition, seeing the choice confirmed in Hannibal’s searching eyes.

“Your presence will not be needed, thank you,” Will responded clinically. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Hannibal suddenly brightening before quickly schooling himself into neutrality again.

The nurse frowned with an unforgiving raised eyebrow, but stowed his keys noisily back in his pocket. “As you wish, Mr. Graham. I’ll be watching on the security monitors, just in case,” he turned to Hannibal, “Dr. Lecter,” the nurse nodded to him in acknowledgement before leaving the room.

“As ever, thank you for your courtesy, Barney,” Hannibal tried to reply with his accustomed graceful air, but the phrasing was trying on his withered lungs and vocal chords. Will noticed the faint giveaway of disappointment in how Hannibal’s face shuttered, his eyes falling to the floor. He was very sick indeed if he had lost this much control.

Barney just waved on his way out, the doors closing quickly behind him.

Will turned back to Hannibal who greeted him with an expectant smile. Will raised an eyebrow, “I could still be here to kill you, you know.”

Hannibal glanced at the crockpot, “If I can’t smell poison anymore, not only will I be humiliated, I will be personally offended that you marred your beautiful design with vulgar intent, Will. You and I, we respect this work too much for easy deaths like that.” He turned back to Will, but couldn’t hold his gaze as long as he wanted, thrown into a fit of coughing from talking so much.

Will’s lips drew back against his cheek, grimacing. Perhaps he was a little too pleased to see Hannibal; he ought not to ask so much of him. Not that Hannibal was exactly given to resisting the urge to speak…

Will stood up and set the crockpot on Hannibal’s tray. He set the lid aside and gave it a quick stir before dishing a generous, broth-filled helping into the provided bowl.

Hannibal leaned forward as best he could while restrained by the shackles, peering over the bowl and breathing as deeply as his illness would allow.

Will glanced at him and couldn’t help smiling a little, reminded of the way a child eagerly strains over a new toy. He sat back down, bowl and spoon in hand, and waited for Hannibal to disguise his open disappointment into cool indifference.

“Are you feeling up to a few mouthfuls?” Will couldn’t resist the temptation for overbearing condescension. It was so rare anyone got to condescend to Hannibal.

Hannibal narrowed his eyes and managed a superior sniff without aggravating himself, “I am up to a few mouthfuls of a soup worthy of my attention.” He retorted.

Will smirked into the bowl and refused to rise to the bait. That was the cheap stuff. Hannibal needed a much bigger lure if he intended to reel Will in this time.

Will leaned forward and offered a spoonful to Hannibal, sliding the bowl under his nose to keep the smell as intense as possible, hoping some of the taste would get through.

Hannibal’s breath caught as his lips parted. Delicately he opened them around the spoon then closed, eyes shutting, scooping all of the contents into his mouth with tongue and teeth before slowly letting Will withdraw. Hannibal kept his eyes closed for many seconds, savoring. Will waited patiently, watching him.

“It is delicious, Will, but I’m afraid I cannot detect all that I might wish to,” Hannibal sighed, opening his eyes again. He looked up at Will mournfully, “Tell me your design.”

Will quirked an eyebrow, “You could smell trout and carrots when I opened the lid, your senses aren’t too dulled.”

Hannibal shook his head slowly, “I can tell you the fish is fresh,” he paused, noticing how Will’s pupils dilated in confirmation, “but I can’t tell you where it was caught. I can tell you the vegetables were store bought, but that’s largely an assumption because I know your habits, not because I can taste stale air and preservative in their flesh.”

“Normally you can?” Will asked, half-unconcerned.

“Yes,” Hannibal leaned forward conspiratorially, “and a great deal more than that.” His whisper was more rumble than words, although Will had very few complaints about that.

Will considered that, peering at his warped reflection on the back of the spoon. “The fish is brown trout, caught from brackish waters. This soup prefers steelhead rather than trout, but I wasn’t quite so lucky.” He glanced over at Hannibal, saw the shining spark of interest in his gaze, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“She was caught only yesterday, I butchered her this morning, just before cooking, along with the onions, garlic, carrots, and red pepper,” Will continued, returning the spoon to the soup.

Hannibal shifted in his bed with a low sigh. Will didn’t have to see him to know he was picturing Will catching the fish, bringing it home, deciding to turn it into soup for him. He knew Hannibal was picturing his hands as they carved up the beautiful white flesh, delicately slicing it into bite-size portions, simmering the soup carefully to ensure the small pieces would not be overcooked.

Will lifted the bowl again and this time blew over the spoonful, forcibly reminded of when Hannibal had fed him by hand, doing the exact same thing. He resisted glancing around for a bone saw to completely reconstruct the touching moment.

Hannibal eagerly took another bite, swallowing this one quicker, eyes on Will. “The shrimp, where did they come from?” Hannibal nudged, asking for more of the story.

Will’s lips drew up, unable to resist Hannibal’s pleading eyes, “I’m afraid those I didn’t catch myself. But they are fresh.”

Hannibal pouted, disgruntled by the less than informative reply, “I’m not so sick I can’t taste reheated ice crystals. Of course they’re fresh, you’d never present me with anything less.” He sighed, a hint of fondness returning to his features.

Will pursed his lips, choosing his words carefully. It was way too much fun watching Hannibal squirm and beg for more as he dragged this out. “Very early this morning, I went down to the docks at the Baltimore fish market and watched what was coming in. I bought two pounds of 43 count shrimp, fresh from the harbor, hadn’t touched the ice for more than a few hours in the ship’s hold. Satisfied?” Will raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Hannibal just cocked his head, “Two pounds, you didn’t use all that for this soup. Your trout is your star ingredient. What will you do with the rest of your catch?”

Will sighed, leaning back and rubbing his neck, “I haven’t decided yet. Hadn’t really thought that far along.”

Hannibal watched the way Will’s eyes wandered away, like his mind. “What did Molly say, watching you prepare this this morning?” Hannibal murmured as he tacitly changed the subject.

“I think I’ll make Fettucine Alfredo with shrimp,” Will answered, entirely ignoring the question.

“She doesn’t understand,” Hannibal responded swiftly to his own question, “she doesn’t know why you’re here or what provoked you to make soup for me. Does it bother her that you would go to such lengths for... me?” Hannibal neglected to describe what he was, that was far too complicated to try.

Will put down the bowl and the spoon and waited. Hannibal had evidently found his bigger lures, with the sharper barbs.

“It would bother me,” Hannibal said so softly he wasn’t entirely sure he’d spoken.

Will, however, straightened up, turning to Hannibal with a keen and surprised expression, “Would it, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal didn’t meet his eyes, only acknowledging Will’s question with an abbreviated shrug, the handcuffs clanking against the bed rails as he did so.

Will lowered his head, leveling his gaze under his lashes to stare at Hannibal, “If it would  _ bother _ you to know I had made this soup for someone else, then I suggest you savor this while you have it and leave the grievances of others out of it.”

Hannibal swallowed, “I’m sorry, Will, that was rude of me.”

Will picked up the bowl and spoon, giving it a quick stir before getting a spoonful together, “You don’t apologize very frequently.”

“I have very little to apologize for,” Hannibal coughed softly, turning back to Will.

Will looked up slowly and as their eyes met again, both men grinned and started laughing. Will almost regretted the brief moment of camaraderie as it sent Hannibal into a violent coughing fit, thrashing against the chains holding him down as his body lurched, trying to expel the sickness.

It was a strange feeling of torture seeing him like this, the impulse to help growing with every pained, straining look on Hannibal’s face. He had wanted to see Hannibal broken but not like this. No, never like this. There was no satisfaction to be taken from an impersonal bacterial infection that attacked Hannibal as it would attack any other host body. It had no knowledge of the work of art it was trying to destroy. That alone made Will hope that Hannibal got better and defeated this. He didn’t deserve to crumble under the same mortal flaws that could take out anyone. It just didn’t seem right.

The coughing finally subsided and Hannibal’s drum-tight body relaxed against the bed, sinking into the covers, more grey than ever.

Will frowned and brought another mouthful to his lips, “Here, have some more.”

Hannibal looked up at him with a grateful, adoring expression, too weak and weary to care very much what Will saw.

Will knew exactly how Hannibal was looking at him and if his thumb happened to graze Hannibal’s lips and cheek as he cupped under the spoon to prevent spills, so be it.

Hannibal’s eyes snapped shut, his body stilling under Will’s touch. It was so slight, to the camera it would look perfectly accidental, but for someone as careful with touch as Will, with a relationship as carefully balanced as theirs, there could be no mistaking intention. Hannibal felt the absurd urge to never wash his face again, to preserve Will’s touch there forever, close and intimate and very much felt.

While Will busied himself with the soup, Hannibal rather inelegantly tried to lick at the corner Will had touched, hoping not to be caught in the act. He knew he couldn’t taste it right now, head too clouded to distinguish Will’s skin cells from his own, but the temptation was so near, he had to…

His thoughts trailed off as his eyes caught the motion of Will’s own lips. Specifically, he caught Will taking a spoonful of soup himself, lips all over the implement, tongue pressed against the warm, smooth metal, licking out the contents.

Hannibal forgot entirely about the faintest of traces of Will on his cheek and his lips parted watching Will take this same spoon and plunge it back into the bowl of soup to feed him next. Hannibal didn’t need the heartrate monitor to tell him his pulse was elevated, it was pounding in his ears. His eyes dilated, tracking between Will’s face, a faint pleased expression brightening his already charming features, and his hand scooping out more soup. Hannibal swallowed preemptively, feeling his breath catch as Will once again brought the spoon to his lips.

This time he hesitated, overcome by the idea that Will’s lips had touched the same article he was about to put in his mouth. This went beyond savoring, this he had to cement in his mind palace forever.

“Go on,” Will’s whisper of encouragement sent a tingle up his spine. Hesitantly, Hannibal’s gaze slid from the spoon to Will, terrified he would change his mind, that this was some cruel prank. Will’s gaze was patient, reassuring, and for a split second, he smiled. He well and truly smiled, looking Hannibal in the eye, the sort of smile Hannibal had never… He’d only looked like this once before, in Florence, at the Uffizi Gallery. But then Will’s face had been torn and destroyed. Now he was whole and healthy, glowing.

Hannibal shut his eyes and closed his mouth around the spoon, sucking at it as if it held eternal youth. Beneath the tomato paste and garlic, beneath the fresh seafood and the trace of river water, beneath that there was the accompanying taste to a smell he knew very well. Will was coating the spoon, his taste was everywhere. Hannibal swallowed hurriedly, but continued to suckle at the spoon, tight between his teeth. His eyes shut tighter, concentrating on the very human taste under his tongue. Will was sweet and spicy and dangerously addictive. He tasted like everything Hannibal knew him to be, everything Hannibal couldn’t get enough of. And, to top it all off, far too fleeting; in a few seconds, all he could taste was metal.

He opened his eyes, looking dazedly out at the world and reluctantly released the spoon, allowing Will to draw it from his mouth.  Breathing heavily, he turned to Will, looking at him languidly, lazily tracing Will’s elegant form without a care in the world for who saw or what they thought.

Will leaned over him, looking down at him, a faint, musing smile playing at his lips. Hannibal could almost picture this exact scene, in a different time, in a different place… The heartrate monitor couldn’t register it, but Hannibal could feel that vital organ twisting painfully at the desperate idea he was forming, the much-longed for, often-wished for thought that Will called up by his mere presence.

In another time and another place, there would have been no sick bed and no shackles. He would not be restrained from pulling close to him that which he wanted most in this world. Hannibal’s hands clenched against the cuffs preventing him and he both cursed and blessed the sickness that had brought Will so close to him. Nothing about this was fair. But then life was never fair.

He stared up at Will, unblinking, unfettered. He wasn’t sure what Will saw, but he had not the strength to lie to him right now and had no real wish to. Will looking at him, just sharing this with him, made him feel stronger than he had in weeks and he’d only been sick the last three days.

Will drew back and Hannibal, unheeding, followed him until the handcuffs prevented him from moving any further. His teeth grit, the cursing outweighing the blessing at the moment.

The spoon scraped noisily against the sides of the bowl and a shard of fear stabbed Hannibal through the chest.

“Not too much more of this, I’m afraid,” Will muttered, quiet and neutral.

Hannibal’s eyes widened, his stomach churning against the food he had just relished. Will had come to feed him soup and if the bowl was close to empty that meant Will was going to leave. Of course Will couldn’t stay, Hannibal knew this. But perhaps he hadn’t really believed it until confronted with the passage of time and the inevitability of parting.

Even if he could drag this out another hour, Will would still have to leave. Will would always leave. The thought ricocheted around the frames of his mind, echoing in cacophony. Suddenly his breathing felt as tight as it did when he first came down with pneumonia.

Hannibal swallowed, “Isn’t it just the way of things that we are given as much as we need, but never as much as we want,” he replied with a hollow glance at Will.

Will didn’t respond, quietly stirring the bowl and gathering a few more morsels together.

“What if I were to refuse to take anymore?”

Will looked up and blinked slowly.

“What if I were to just not accept it? Leaving you with a sense of unfulfilled obligation, a longing to complete your task… what then?” Hannibal peered at him curiously, intent.

Will’s face twitched at the word ‘obligation,’ it didn’t sit well with him. He breathed deeply, cocking his head by the faintest of degrees, “Then I would just leave. I didn’t come here to convince you, Dr. Lecter, and I don’t plan to if you’re going to be difficult.”

Hannibal swallowed, holding Will’s icy gaze. He knew Will meant it. But he also knew he’d been right about Will’s lingering feelings of guilt.

Hannibal tried one last time, “This is… as much for you as it is for me,” and he knew he was dead on.

Will stopped and put down the bowl again, his carefully scooped together nourishment lazily falling back into the shallow divot. He swallowed, looking at the ground, then slowly drew a breath. He leaned very close to Hannibal and hissed, “Would I be here… would I have done this if it was just for you?”

“You’re very angry with yourself for caring,” Hannibal whispered, looking hard at Will.

“No, I’m angry with you,” Will snapped.

Hannibal shook his head slowly, never looking away from Will’s eyes, “You’re not. But you want to be.” 

Slowly, Hannibal’s face softened, a smile creeping across his lips, “Would I disappoint you if I didn’t finish what you made me?”

Will gulped, “Yes.”

“Let me finish it then,” Hannibal dropped his eyes, satisfied.

Will picked up the bowl again and this time when he fed Hannibal, the eyes looking back at him were unmistakable, clear, dark, and entirely untrustworthy. This was his… the Hannibal he knew. And even though he had been so careful, inside Will could feel himself unspooling under Hannibal’s gaze, the way the man could reach inside and tug with just a look. Will’s hands faltered on the spoon and bowl, almost dropping it once. It wasn’t fair, none of this was fair. But that’s how it was.

The last of the broth drained into Hannibal’s eager mouth and Will set the tableware down for the last time. He took a moment to remind himself of why he came here before turning back to Hannibal, who was licking his lips like Fisherman’s Soup was the finest of fine dining, instead of a humble fish stew.

Will watched him sigh deeply and was surprised to hear less rattle, less hesitation as his stomach fell. He glanced at the heartrate monitor; it showed an enviably regular pattern. Will swallowed. The upsetting thing about setting out to fix Hannibal Lecter was that it just might work.

“Do you know why I enjoyed cooking for others when it was such a risk, Will?” Hannibal asked, turning to him.

Will shook his head, folding his arms protectively over his chest, as if any amount of closed body language could stop Hannibal reading him like a textbook.

“Because when you cook a meal for someone, you pour a little of yourself into the recipe. You can’t avoid it. Cooking is meant to be shared between ourselves and others, it’s why we do it,” he looked over at Will knowingly. He didn’t need to say anything more.

“And sharing yourself… was it worth it?” Will asked pointedly.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

“If you share yourself, you risk letting others see you. You weren’t protecting yourself by cooking for them, you were inviting vulnerability,” Will countered.

Hannibal smiled widely, stretching from sharp teeth up to the glimmer in his eyes, “I invited you,” and the look in those eyes gave Will the impression that he didn’t care greatly if this invitation cost him his life or not.

Will swallowed, standing to leave.

“Will,” Hannibal’s voice reached him even when he was nearly at the door. Will was arrested in motion and told himself it was because of Hannibal’s near-miraculous recovery and not because his name on those lips would always call him back.

Will turned stiffly, glaring at the invalid.

“Your crockpot,” Hannibal nodded to the appliance still left on the floor.

Will glanced at it, before turning away and calling over his shoulder, “Keep it. You can give it back the next time I’m sick.” And without a backwards glance, he swung out of the doors and left, leaving Hannibal and the crockpot and his design in a sick room in a Baltimore State Hospital.

In the quiet sick room, in the infamous Baltimore State Hospital, Hannibal Lecter leaned back against his pillows, closed his eyes, and smiled.


End file.
